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Category Archives: letter

An Open Letter to People Who Find my Blog Accidentally (Volume 22)

Dear People Who Find My Blog Accidentally:

Here we are in April! The buds are on the trees and there are even some leaves and my car is covered in pollen and I am sneezing NONSTOP. Happy spring and happy spring allergies! Ah-choo! Also my eyes are itchy and I am so snuffly. But, spring, you know? It’s kind of a hard choice since I love the weather so much. So I use my nasal spray and foray out into the beautiful weather. It’s my favorite.

I know things have been wonky this month and we had the QUESTIONS before the SEARCH TERMS but sometimes that’s the way I roll. Like a covered wagon full of things like pots and pans and haunches of beef. But here we are, just in under the wire, on the very last day of the month. I didn’t let you down! I win!

So, just in case you’re new, let me catch you up on this recurring post. I’m obsessed with my stats; I like to check what search terms drive people to my blog; then I feel REALLY BAD this isn’t what they were looking for. So I write them a letter of apology (this is the twenty-second one. That’s a lot of search terms, and also I’ve been blogging for a very long time, apparently. If you’re interested, search for the others; they’re stellar.) Why do I do this? Eh, you know. Because it’s more fun than going for a jog, I guess? Also, more fun than cleaning the bathroom. Or yodeling.

Oh, dude, this guys LOVES to yodel. LOVES IT.

Oh, dude, this guys LOVES to yodel. LOVES IT.

So I’m going to break you down into categories and address you in groups. I hope you like everyone in your group, but you might not. That’s the nature of groups. Please try not to start fights with your fellow group members. It makes things awkward, you know? Then you’ll just run into that person all the time, like at the breakfast buffet, and you’ll have to avert your eyes, and you’ll get that weird tense stomach-feeling, so just don’t fight with your group members. If they get annoying, think of something nice to help you get by. Kittens. Rainbows. Lasers. Pom-poms. You know. Things like that.

Also, there aren’t as many this month, which is sad, as well as good, because I haven’t been sleeping, and if I can get this done, I can go to bed. That will be nice, won’t it? Yes. Yes, it will. And I only have one more day of work this week! Then SIX DAYS OFF!

Category the First: I’m…sorry? I think?    

my pan pipes arent working
the person who is usually at the top of my ‘people you may know’ list on facebook has disappeared

I found your pan pipes! This adorable little mouse has them!

I found your pan pipes! This adorable little mouse has them!

I would think if your pan pipes weren’t working, you’d be glad about that. Unless you’re Zamfir, I suppose. If you’re Zamfir, you kind of make your living groovin’ on the pan pipe. And who cares if the top person on your “people you may know” is missing? Mine change every time the page refreshes. Don’t everyone’s? That can’t be just me. I don’t think that person disappearing means there’s some sort of conspiracy or that person has died. It just means the page refreshed. Take a deep breath. All is well, merry sunshine.

Category the Second: I don’t think that’s a thing.    

the ninja aka hiv     

Is HIV being called “the ninja” now? I mean, I don’t know all the slang in the land, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t. I feel like I would have heard that somewhere or something, wouldn’t I? I’ve heard SOME of the slang. I’m not SO old. Like, I know about YOLO. I don’t LIKE it, but I’ve HEARD it. You can’t live on the internet and not know SOME of the slang. So I’m calling shenanigans on this slang, and I will quote Mean Girls to you now.

Category the Third: Weirdest porn search ever.

literotica—watching animals mate on grans farm

I think there’s a site CALLED Literotica, and I don’t have an issue with that. Well-written literotica is a nice thing. (TERRIBLE literotica, and I am looking at you, 50 Shades, is NOT a nice thing in the LEAST.) But someone wanted literotica about animals mating on their grandmother’s farm? Is that sexy? YES, I understand, everyone has their thing. But is watching animals get busy the hottest? I don’t get it. Plus, do NOT do a porn search with your grandmother’s name in it. GROOOOOSS.

Category the Fourth: Well, aren’t YOU judgey.  

weirdos wear transition lenses

RUDE! Not ALL people with Transition lenses are weirdos. Andreas wears them and he is one of the finest people on the whole planet and not at all a weirdo. And SOME of us who wear them just haven’t gotten around to going to the eye doctor and getting another eye exam and getting new glasses even though they have good insurance now but plan on doing it next month, ok? Sheesh.

Category the Fifth: Ha!

amy’s dad didn’t like muffins     
caught wearing slouch socks
ghosts on the ceiling
never trust man named after town
nightmares and my ex’s picture stuck on “people you may know” list when i log into facebook. not quite in that order 
she may not look like much, but she’s got the cheese where it counts, kid           
stats on how many people accidentally see porn

How do you know my dad doesn’t like muffins? I don’t think he dislikes muffins. I mean, I don’t have any super-awesome memories of my dad scarfing all the muffins, but he didn’t, like, throw the muffins at my mom if she ever made them or anything, either. No muffin-hate with Amy’s Dad. Promise.

Hee, “caught” wearing slouch socks. Like it’s a crime. I was caught wearing slouch socks a lot in the 80s. Often with stirrup pants and high-top sneakers. I WAS PRETTY!

OMG, ghosts on the ceiling. I’m pretty sure this is a misheard lyric of that “gold on the ceiling” Black Keys song. I say that because when I first heard it I thought it was “goat on the ceiling” and I laughed and laughed at the mental image of a goat on the ceiling until I found out it was gold and then I got bored.

Goat is better than gold, Black Keys. Why didn't you consult with me?

Goat is better than gold, Black Keys. Why didn’t you consult with me?

Hmm. We can’t trust a man named after a town. Why is that, exactly? Like, does his name make him suspect? Do we think he has an elevated sense of grandeur? This makes me laugh. Also, I don’t know if I know any men named after towns, and the only woman I can think of named after a town is Dallas Howard, and it’s not like we’re BFFs. I just feel kind of bad for her because who would want the whole world knowing your parents named you after the town where they boinked and you were the result, you know?

I like the wording of the next one. “Not quite in that order.” Are you having nightmares about Facebook? If so, you’re taking it too seriously. It’s just Facebook, jellybean. Block him from your people you may know and forget it.

Even me, who doesn’t like Star Wars, knows that’s a Han Solo quote. But where the hell does the cheese part of it come in? And I’d like that written on my tombstone when I die, please. I’d like to be remembered for having cheese where it counted.

“Accidentally” seeing porn? I think a lot of people SAY they accidentally see porn, but I don’t know that too many people DO accidentally see porn. I think it’s mostly on purpose. It’s what the internet is for, after all. Porn and kitten GIFs. Well, I guess I do, sometimes, accidentally see porn. I take that back. Because once and a while, Google image search is weird? And I’ll do a search for something like “shoehorns” and then there will be a full-on photo of people boning. I worry children are seeing these things and running to their parents all “MOM? IS THIS A SHOEHORN?”

Category the Sixth: Hmm.

beautiful oldmen’s penis

“oldmen’s” being all one word makes me laugh, and this search is oddly specific and I think will also make oldmen happy, so I guess it’s equal parts pervy and joyous. As most things on the internet seem to be.

Category the Seventh: Sigh. No. Not sexy pillowfights, either.

girls shirt accidentally comes open porn        

Shirts don’t often accidentally come open; women don’t spontaneously burst their buttons very often. Sorry to break it to you. Also, we don’t have naughty pillowfights and we don’t walk around naked and chatting about girly-things in the locker room and we don’t practice a lot of kissing on each other. Life isn’t often a porn. Or even a movie. Life is quite often very mundane, unless you work very hard to get some magic in there. MAGIC, I said. Not porn. There’s a difference.

Category the Ninth: Yep. I know.

and again, today i didnt sleep

I have been having severe sleep issues for about a week now. I feel like I’m sleepwalking through mud lately. I’m hoping eventually my body will give up and I’ll just crash out for a full night. We’ll see what happens. I’m not sure if I have too much on my mind or too many worries or too many memories are attempting to have a chat with me the minute I put my head on my pillow or what exactly is happening but it can totally cut it right the hell out now, please. I want to sleep. Soundly. Just once. Thanks.

Category the Tenth: Fun with foreign searchers!

ลิงหางยาว ตัวเมีย

I don't like this face. It scares me. MONKEYS ARE SCARY TO ME YOU GUYSSSS

I don’t like this face. It scares me. MONKEYS ARE SCARY TO ME YOU GUYSSSS

This means “long tailed female macaque.” Which is a monkey. And I hate monkeys. But oh, do I like it when I get fancy foreign searchers. I feel very continental and want to wear a beret and talk with an accent.

Category the Eleventh: Nah, that’s just the spring breeze. Here’s a sweater, you’ll be fine. 

you’re too cool for me now

Oh, darlin’. I could be in a deep freeze for a year and wouldn’t be too cool for anyone. I’m like the opposite of cool. I’m sweaty and out of sorts. Like, all the time. No one thinks I’m cool. Promise. PINKY SWEAR. We good? Good.

See? Not so many this month. But that means I have about an hour before I even have to get ready for bed, which is nice. Wish me sleepy-vibes. If I don’t get a good night’s sleep soon, I might DIE. Fine, I’m exaggerating. But I’m about to get totally cranky. Oh, also, I’m going to see Les Miserables tonight and for Mexican, so yay, theater and food!

Until next month, my poor lost lambikins. May Google be kind in your searches.

Love, Me.

(As always, thank you to Mer for the inspiration for these posts!)

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An Open Letter to People Who Find my Blog Accidentally (Volume 21)

Dear People Who Find My Blog Accidentally:

Well, happy March, people of the intertubes. I think it’s supposed to be spring now? Or spring-ish? And sometimes it kind of is. But mostly it’s still cold. I want to open the windows! I want to feel spring breezes on my face! I want to sit on my porch and not freeze my buns off! Plus, Dumbcat loves the spring. He sits in the window and his little nose goes and he squints his eyes with happiness. I don’t know if Newcat will love the window. I assume they will not love the window at the same time, because then there will be all the hissery. SO MUCH HISSERY!

So! Much! Hissery!

So! Much! Hissery!

Well, you know what time this is, right? It’s the end of the month, so that means your cable bills are due, and also your rent bills. And it’s also time to see what search terms are bringing people to the old Football this month! I know you’re probably totally anticipating this every month. I do what I can to brighten your days, my little chocolate drops.

I again tried to make this post not so insanely long this month. Mostly because I’d like to get to bed before midnight tonight. It’s tough to stay awake at my desk if I stayed up until midnight the night before blogging about tomfoolery. (SIDE NOTE: I’m very good at staying up late and not very good at getting up early. I think I have something wrong with my internal clock. That has a name, doesn’t it? Circadian rhythms, right? I like to imagine that like the Church of Scientology and their Thetans. SOMEONE FIX MY CIRCADIANS THEY’RE NOT BEHAVING!)

So, just in case you’re new, let me catch you up on this recurring post. I’m obsessed with my stats; I like to check what search terms drive people to my blog; then I feel REALLY BAD this isn’t what they were looking for. So I write them a letter of apology (this is the twenty-first one. Aw, my little posts can legally get drunk now! Be careful, little posts, or you’ll wake up on the floor next to your toilet questioning your life choices! Oh, yeah, if you’re interested, search for the others; they’re stellar.) Why do I do this? I live a very rich inner life, chickadees. As I write these, I like to imagine I’m a FANCY ROCKSTAR with a SPARKLY SEQUINED JUMPSUIT. Just roll with it.

So I’m going to break you down into categories and address you in groups. SIDE NOTE: at work, we had to break into groups today. My task was to be the person who made the chart we hung on the wall. Guess whose group had the prettiest chart? Yep, mine. I have EXCELLENT handwriting. Even the group facilitator was all, “You have lovely handwriting. My handwriting on these charts is always terrible and I’m so embarrassed.” I WIN HANDWRITING! I asked one of my group members if I could find a job where I could utilize my marker-and-large-piece-of-paper writing skills, and he said, “Yes. Pre-K teacher.” I said, “How about a job where I don’t have to deal with humans?” He shook his head sadly no.

I don't write anything like this. I always thought these Qs were RIDICULOUS. They just look like 2s. TWOS!

I don’t write anything like this. I always thought these Qs were RIDICULOUS. They just look like 2s. TWOS!

Category the First: So. Many. People.

people you may know facebook (164)

That’s right. One-hundred and sixty-four people searched using some variation of the phrase “people you may know facebook.” That Facebook post I wrote a million billion years ago? Is like the second- or third-most popular post I’ve ever written. People are OBSESSED with People You May Know. And I cannot figure that out. And – check this out. I got an EMAIL the other day from someone asking how to get rid of the People You May Know. An email! From a total stranger who doesn’t even comment on the blog! Like I’m an EXPERT on Facebook! I totally answered it, too. Nicely. And said, “You can’t get rid of that. Sorry.”

Category the Second: No. No, she can’t. Also, that’s rape, chum.

“she can sleep through” cum

Did we learn nothing from Steubenville? If someone’s sleeping, they can’t give consent. And if someone can’t give consent, it’s rape. I would go more into detail about this, but that’s really all you need. Because that’s it. If she can’t say yes or no, it’s a no. And if you go ahead with it anyway, you are a rapist. End of story.

Category the Third: Also known as, everything I’ve ever written here, ever.

a very long story about high school

I also write very long stories about travel, friends, theater, books, television, cats, and sometimes NOTHING AT ALL. You are WELCOME.

Category the Fourth: Porny porn pornerson!

beastsex beast movies sybil d’28 little baby animal porn
mournfull sex story of brother sister

That first one is a LOT of WORDS. You got your beastsex and your beast MOVIES and your Sybil and your “d’28″ whatever that is and your little baby animal porn. Put that all together and what do you have? I…don’t even know. Whatever it is, it’s worrisome, and also horrifying.

I think it’s kind of funny that you consider incest mournful (sorry, “mournfull”) and yet you still hit the Googles to search for it. Good job, creeper.

You should ask Jaime about the mournfulness, I think he'd have some serious insights for you.

You should ask Jaime about the mournfulness, I think he’d have some serious insights for you.

Category the Fifth: Ha!

“my penis is gone” srs
baby seal piñata
cant sleep cause my friends are an fire
fight on maury
girl bowel movement
girls that say they sleep sith zak bagans
hello mr. tumnus! i haven’t seen you in a while, but i just wanted to write you a letter to let you know i am doing very well.
i bet you i won’t even get one like with a puppy
married to a frog oreilly
most romantic high schools
turpentine on ebay

This is my favorite category because it cracks me up, yo.

SRS. My penis is gone for SRS. I’m sorry, dude. You probably should SRS call the cops and put in a report or something. It might show up in someone’s lost and found box, you never know.

A baby seal piñata makes me laugh because then you could totally club a baby seal at a party so it’s like multitasky. Also, I like that you put that squiggly over the n. Tilde? I think it’s a tilde? Don’t yell at me. I took French. Oui, mes petites, c’est vrai.

It is a THING! Hooray!

It is a THING! Hooray!

OMG, that is the best misheard music lyric ever. OK, so the lyric (from one of my favorite songs, “Psycho Killer”) is “I can’t sleep ’cause my bed’s on fire.” “I can’t sleep ’cause my FRIENDS are an fire” is HYSTERICAL to me. Also, of COURSE you can’t sleep if your friends are on fire. If you’re sleeping through your friends burning to death, you have no soul. I can’t sleep if my friends are even the slightest bit UPSET about something, I mean, come on, seriously. ON FIRE? Also? PUT THEM OUT!!! THEY ARE YOUR FRIENDS!!!

WHICH fight on Maury are you referring to? Because there are a billion. A BILLION FIGHTS.

Psst, here’s a secret I need to let you in on: yes. It is true. Girls have bowel movements, too. JUST LIKE GUYS. We all poop! Everyone does! Every last person and animal and even goldfish! Try not to be too shocked. I thought it was important you knew.

OMG SITH ZAK BAGANS. I knew there was something sketchy about that ghost hunter! He’s a SITH! That makes SO MUCH SENSE!

SITH!!!

SITH!!!

Why is someone writing a letter to Mr. Tumnus on my blog? OK, nevermind, I’ll pass it along to him next time I see him, I suppose. As we hang. We do a lot of hanging, me and Mr. Tumnus. We’re tight, yo.

I bet you won’t even GET one. Like with a PUPPY. *kicks rocks* *rues the day*

Aw, I love that you came here looking for Bill O’Reilly comparing gay marriage to marrying a frog. It was actually a turtle, but you’re close. Hi! And welcome! We often like to call out asshattery here; you’re in the right place if you like this kind of thing.

Most ROMANTIC high schools? It’s HIGH SCHOOL. It’s not ROMANTIC. It’s HELL. You’re lucky if you get out ALIVE. It’s not like there are candles in the hallway or chocolate-dipped-strawberries in the library.

Why are you buying turpentine on Ebay? Wouldn’t it be cheaper at Target or something? The shipping alone would be more expensive than just going out and buying it. Unless you’re looking to buy Brandi Carlile’s “Turpentine.” And if that’s the case, you want her whole album The Story, which is wonderful. You should buy it. Absolutely. Here, I haven’t been able to stop listening to this one lately.

Sorry, there’s no real video and this is kind of terrible. Just close your eyes and listen. “I was born when I met you/Now I’m dying to forget you/And that is what I know.”

Category the Sixth: Heads up: I’m pretty easy NOW. Plus I’m bendier than I’ll be then.

amy easy over 70

I’m easy when I’m over 70? Goodness gracious, when I’m over 70, I’ll be kind of tired. Why will I be easy? Also, why are you wasting my easy years, which I’m pretty sure are now? That’s totally wasteful of you. You’re not going to win any environmental awards for that.

Category the Seventh: ME!

crazy without drugs

I am crazy without drugs. I’m just larger-than-life and over the top ALL THE TIME. And there’s no drugs here, babycakes. Well, prescription drugs, but they don’t count. I mean, if I don’t take them, I’d probably die. They don’t take away the crazy, though. It’s good crazy. Don’t worry. I’m not stabbing anyone or wearing tinfoil hats. I don’t think.

Category the Ninth: Why you trying to gank my boyfriend, yo?

daryl dixon
pregnant by daryl Dixon

You cannot have Daryl Dixon. He’s taken. BY ME. I don’t want Norman Reedus, just Daryl Dixon. So, hands off, grabby. You can have Hershel if you want. He’s free. And can’t move very fast so you can totally catch him in a footrace.

MINE.

MINE.

Category the Tenth: You cannot. Better people than you have tried. And failed. Miserably.

define:lucy’s football

I reject definitions. I am MANY THINGS to MANY PEOPLE. Some days I’m all serious-face and some days I’m all jokey-face and some days I’m crying over something and some days I’m laughing so hard I’m hiccuping. I’m an enigma. Don’t you slap your definitions on me. They’ll slide right off. I’m like TEFLON, baby.

Category the Eleventh: SJ! THIS ONE IS FOR YOU!

happysj contraccion

I’m not sure what’s happening here, but it’s totally for you, sj. You’re happy and you’re…um…contraccioning? Is it like a contraction? I’m not even sure, but it makes me smile. I like that you get searches here. I’m happy about that. You’re always welcome to my searches, my most favorite sj.

Category the Twelfth: YES! That’s totally what summer’s like around here!

lucy summer red hot central

It is red-hot central around here in the summer, babes. I walk around in a BIKINI, and there are a lot of SHENANIGANS, and water-throwing, and…um…sun-tanning…and…shit, I can’t even keep this up. What I do in the summer is come home, put on my coolest clothing, and flop in front of the air conditioning and pant like an overheated Newfoundland puppy. I don’t deal well with heat. It’s the worst. The. Worst. Sorry to ruin your sexytimes thoughts.

Category the Thirteenth: Yes! Wait. Who the hell’s Patricia?

sex lucy aka patricia

I was so excited I got an indecent proposal and then I think this is misdirected and you’re looking for someone named Patricia and I am most definitely not Patricia and I’m only minimally Lucy so I think this isn’t even for me at all. Dammit. WHEN’S IT GONNA BE MY TIME?

Category the Fourteenth: They ARE? Cool, send ‘em on over.

this person is in love with you

A PERSON! Is in LOVE with me! Well, good. Listen, I’m totally looking forward to this. Because it’s been a long time. I could use a pleasant diversion. And if the guy’s already in love with me, well, there’s half the battle won. But I will tell you right now: if you, person, break my heart, I WILL STAB YOU WITH A BARBECUE SKEWER. I’ve had enough of that shit to last my whole lifetime over. So get on over here. Extra points if you bring a boombox and a trenchcoat and some Peter Gabriel, darlin’.

Is the person in love with me Lloyd Dobler? I'm down with that.

Is the person in love with me Lloyd Dobler? I’m down with that.

There. We are finished for the month! All the search terms! All in one post! ALL FOR YOU DAMIEN! I know, it’s really very impressive. I don’t know where you people come from, but I like that you’re here. You make life so much more interesting, you know? And who wants a boring life? No one, is who.

Until next month, my poor lost lambikins. May Google be kind in your searches.

Love, Me.

(As always, thank you to Mer for the inspiration for these posts!)


An Open Letter to Jane Doe, the Victim of the Steubenville Rape Case (Trigger Warning)

What was done to you was not your fault.

Before I say another word, before I go any further, I want you to please re-read that. Not just read it, but absorb it.

It was something that was done to you. It was done TO you. You were not capable of consent. It was done to your body because mentally, you were not present, and you did not give your consent. You did not give your consent by drinking at the party, by being at the party, by what you wore to the party, by whatever you might have said or done at the party. You did not give consent; therefore, it was done to you, and done against your will.

And it was not your fault. As much as you did not give consent, nothing you did can be blamed on you. You weren’t at fault for drinking. You weren’t at fault for being there. You weren’t at fault for dressing, acting, talking, or walking a certain way. Nothing you did caused this; you are not at fault in this situation.

However, not only did the golden gods of Steubenville, Ohio do what they would with you that night, America has victimized you all over again. Because, you see, those good young boys, those football-playing, intelligent young men, would never have done this. Right? So it must have been your fault. Because you’re female. And if there’s anything we like to do, it’s blame the woman. It’s something we’re very good at, going all the way back to Eve. You’re just one in a long line of women taking the fall.

So we call you a whore. We bemoan the fact that these boys’ lives are ruined. We disparage you because you were (gasp!) underage drinking. Someone pipes up with the fact that you might not have been a virgin before the night of the party. Someone else shouts that in one of the photos, it looks like you might be standing on your own, so therefore were obviously wanting to be there, to have these things done to you. Even better: people send you death threats. Because this is clearly your fault.

What we don’t say: that a group of boys, so many boys (some of them, age-wise, if not mentality-wise, men) that no one has ever been able to provide even a potential possible count of how many there might have been, took a sixteen-year-old girl who was either blackout drunk or who had been roofied and raped her, repeatedly, over one long night and into the next morning. Not only did they rape her in every single orifice she had, they urinated on her as well. Because it was funny. And because they could. And of course, because it’s the digital age, they videotaped and tweeted it every step of the way. With things like “I have no sympathy for whores” and “never seen anything this sloppy” and “some people deserve to be peed on.” When they were finished, they dumped her on someone’s lawn. Like you do with garbage that you have no further use for. Because that is how we treat human beings. We dump them when we’re done with them. Like garbage.

We concentrate instead on the fact that the two boys who were caught – not the multitude of boys who are guilty, just the two boys who were caught – will now be labeled sex offenders for the rest of their lives. That their lives are over. How will they play professional sports now? How will they get good jobs, go to college, move into good neighborhoods with this hanging over their heads? And who among us at that age didn’t make poor decisions? How unfair. How unfair for those poor boys. These poor boys, who cannot, apparently, be held responsible for possibly drugging, then holding a semi-conscious girl against her will for hours, passing her around like a plate of cold cuts, and raping her repeatedly, then recording it. These are not the actions of children. These are not actions of someone making a bad choice. These are actions of rapists. They got off light, sentencing-wise. The other boys who weren’t caught? Well, aren’t they lucky. They are free to do it again. Or something even worse. Because by not catching them, we’re telling them what they did was alright. What they did was acceptable.

And we either vilify or ignore the central character here. You. Because you are either the evil devil temptress woman who ruined these poor boys’ lives, or you aren’t even worth our time.

You are the victim of a terrible crime, and you have been further victimized by the woman-hating society in which we currently live. And for this, I apologize doubly. I have been reading comments on blog posts and screaming myself hoarse on your behalf for days. I have been weeping because I know what it feels like to be in your skin.

We don’t believe our rape victims. Even when they have the courage to come forward and say, “I was raped.” Even when there is video showing it being done to them. Even when there are tweets and recordings of people admitting they did it. We refuse to believe it, because it’s much easier to believe that the woman somehow deserved it.

By drinking too much at a party while underage – even though the other people at the party were also underage and also drinking.

By dressing a certain way – as if men can’t physically control themselves when faced with certain apparel.

By not being a virgin – as if you’re not allowed to say no if you’ve said yes once, whether to that person or to someone else.

By flirting with someone – because flirting is just subtext for “I want to be brutally raped now, please.”

By daring to be female around people who happen to be male – because, well, it’s what we deserve, right? For not having a penis? And not offering every man in the room a place to stick their penises?

If I could, I would like to sit you down. I would like to tell you that you are not broken. That your life doesn’t end here. That not every man you meet will be like these boys were. That there are very, very good men out there that understand that no means no, even if you’re not physically capable of saying no. That not everyone in the world thinks you are to blame for this, even though those people seem to be the most vocal right now. That none of this – none, not even the slightest bit of it – is your fault. These boys are to blame. Even the ones who didn’t touch you and just stood by and recorded it or tweeted, or just stood by and laughed. You are not at fault. You didn’t ruin these boys’ lives; they ruined their own lives the minute they decided to assault you. This is their fault. This is not on you. Nothing about this is. None of the hateful words people are spewing right now have anything to do with you; they have everything to do with small minds and fear. I hope your family is holding you close; I hope your family is telling you how much they love you, how cherished you are, how special.

You are sixteen years old. Possibly seventeen, now. You have your whole life in front of you. You can be anything you want. This does not define you. You are stronger than this. You are stronger than you know. You faced down that entire town. The strength that had to take – I can’t even imagine. I think about you refusing to back down on this, seeing it through to the end, and I am so, so proud of you. You stood not only for yourself, but for every other girl that this has happened to. You showed them what bravery was. You showed them that this is not allowed. You showed them that we will not allow this to happen to us, to our sisters, our daughters.

You have started a national dialogue about rape shaming, about how to teach our children about rape, about how far this will go before someone says, no. No more. This is not something we will allow. This is not something we will permit people to do to our children.

None of this is your fault. None of what they did to you is your fault, no matter what the media says, no matter what the people in the town say to you or about you or behind your back. You can hold your head up high, and I hope you do.

You are not broken. You are not broken, or even bent around the edges a little bit.

In my eyes, you shine so bright we all need to squint a little just to look at you. I am so proud of you. I am so humbled by you. I thank you so much for your courage when you could easily have run, backed down, locked this behind a door in your heart and never spoken of it again, never looked at it again except at 2am when sleep won’t come and the morning seems like it’s a million years away.

You are my sister, my daughter, my friend. We should all be flocking around you to protect you; instead, the world threw stones. And you refused to run, and you refused to back down, and you refused to turn away.

We could all learn a lesson from the internal strength of a sixteen-year-old girl in Steubenville, Ohio who was assaulted, accused of ruining people’s lives when she told the truth about it, and stared them all down and refused to change her story because she had truth on her side.

I expect great things from you. Those of us who have been tested in the fire often come out stronger than we’d even imagine on the other side. Please know there are people out here who are raising their voice with yours. There are people out here who will not let you walk through this alone. And we are just as loud as the people who hate; only we’re twice as powerful. Love always is, you see.


An Open Letter to People Who Find my Blog Accidentally (Volume 20)

Dear People Who Find My Blog Accidentally:

It is now February. That means – DRUMROLL DRUMROLL TAH DAH TAH DAHHHHHH! We are almost to Andreas-month! Even better, only THREE MORE DAYS til Andreas-DAY! I am sitting here waiting to hear from Andreas that he arrived safely. He should be here in the next two hours. “Here” as in “in my state,” not “here” as in “in my town” because THAT would probably KILL me with excitement, I’m not even kidding. I mean, take how excited I am about him being in New York and multiply it times a bazillion and you’d get Amy dead of a heart attack, surely.

Yes, we did things a little backward this month. I know. Sometimes I like to mix things up. It’s good for you. You should try it. Also, my brain’s kind of focused on Saturday right now, to be honest. Dad keeps saying “you be careful, you’re going to drive into a lamppost.” I like that Dad thinks I live in a town with like a billion lampposts. Like I live in Narnia or something.

Mr. Tumnus! I always wanted to meet Mr. Tumnus. Do we think he's in my closet?

Mr. Tumnus! I always wanted to meet Mr. Tumnus. Do we think he’s in my closet?

I tried to cut down the searches a little this month. Let’s see how I did. I can’t guarantee anything, yo. I’m tricky like that. My “I cut down” is a normal person’s “THIS IS SO LONG (that’s what she said).”

So, just in case you’re new, let me catch you up on this recurring post.  I’m obsessed with my stats; I like to check what search terms drive people to my blog; then I feel REALLY BAD this isn’t what they were looking for. So I write them a letter of apology (this is the twentieth one. Twenty? Good grief, that seems extreme. Search for the others; they’re stellar.) Why do I do this? Well, sometimes you find yourself faced with a choice: either write a weird post about your stats, or bungee-jump off your porch with tied-together rubber-bands. And the first choice here is clearly the safer one. Although I do only live on the second floor, so I’m sure I’d be fine. Let’s table that bungee-jump thing for another time, what do you say? Great.

So I’m going to break you down into categories and address you in groups. Now find your buddies and do NOT let go of their hands. I’m serious, there are all kinds of baddies out there in the woods. I know that because I’m ONE of them, she said maliciously.

Category the First: I’m so glad, sincerely. Good. Why’d you leave in the first place, though?

i came back she was so happy 

This is nice, and probably also romantic. But my question to you is, my friend – why’d you leave in the first place? Because that’s a question I have to ask. If you love someone, don’t leave ‘em. Well, unless they’re like an abusive asshole or something, but if that’s the case, don’t come BACK. Ugh, here’s the thing: it’s a big old world. If you find someone you love enough to be HAPPY to see you come BACK, don’t LEAVE them. There. Fixed it. I win fixing things.

Category the Second: Hmm.

how to draw lucy with a football 
how to find best fuckers in males      
I think someone just called me fat         
i think you’ve got your talents from me
no heart found

These are all curious to me. Why do you want to draw Lucy with the football? Charles Schultz already drew her. You’re really just copying if you do that. And there’s probably a special circle of hell reserved for copiers, yo. Don’t go there. You’ll get all burned and shit. How to find the best fuckers. Well, I think trial and error? I think a lot of trial and error. Also, some men are better at taking direction than others, so if you find a keeper who’s just not the best at…euphemizing…maybe give him some nice (and non-ego-destroying) tips. I’m not Cosmo, so that’s as much as you’re getting out of me here. If you “think” someone just called you fat, you’re not sure. Just let it go. Don’t worry about it. Probably it’s all in your head; I know I think people are talking about me sometimes when they’re not, only because my childhood trauma is loud as hell and says things to me like “THEY’RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU!” so it’s what I’m always expecting. Tell your inner voice to stop being a jerk. I don’t think I got my talents from you, but thanks for trying to steal my thunder, bub. “No heart found” could go either serial-killy or bad-romancey. Which is it, darlin’? Either way, sorry.

Category the Third: Whoa. That’s dedication, dude.

got the shirt as an early christmas gift and was very excited until i put it on. i am a medium in every shirt i own and have owned, except in this. the length went down to the middle of my thighs, the sleeves were abnormally short, overall, the shirt just didn’t make sense. it was definitely not a medium, nor do i recommend it to anyone that thinks they wear one.     

You typed all of this into Google. You typed all of this into Google? Good grief, why? It’s like a review. Why didn’t you write it as a review wherever you BOUGHT the shirt? And why did it bring you here? And listen, I’m sorry you had a shirt with too-short sleeves and too-long shirt-tails. It sounds like a dress. Are we sure it’s not a dress?

Category the Fourth: Come on, guys, really? Go to Craig’s List for this stuff or something, sheesh.

“she is my mom” litrotica vampire          
anemal sex hooly woood actress video.com      
asian fever sex doll 
beastiality pregnant boar -download -video -board    
bestiality pigboar womem.in        
bestiality stories boar         
boar sex stories        
erotic flintstones    
local sluts with herpes        
rectal thermometer erotica fetish           
round ass in pants men     
search how to do sex          
sexual watersports  
son wears bra literotica      

This is the kind of crap I find on a daily basis when I look at my search terms, guys. Apparently, people are into – A LOT of people are into – boar-sex. I don’t want to think about this too much. We also want literotica about our family members; Fred and Wilma gettin’ their rocks off (get it? Rocks? Because Flintstones? I could do this ALL DAY, yo); local sluts with herpes (I don’t even); some sort of bum-shenanigans with a thermometer (how is that even hot? Thermometers aren’t even big enough to REGISTER. People are SO WEIRD); and my most favorite, “how to do sex.” HOW TO DO SEX! Well, I can give you tips on this. First, stop saying “do sex” or you’ll sound like Jeff Bridges in Starman.  You will never get to HAVE sex if you call it “doing sex.” Second, good grief, kiddo, if you have to hit the internet and type in “how to do sex” YOU ARE TOO YOUNG TO HAVE SEX. Wait a bit. Watch some dirty movies. Maybe not SO dirty. Maybe work your way up to dirty, I don’t know. Do some heavy-petting down at the drive-in first, Daddy-o. You don’t need to be doing sex right now, even though the cool kids all seem to be doing it. PRO TIP: A lot of the cool kids that say they’re doing sex are LYING.

I don't know what's happening here, but Groban makes me laugh SO HARD.

I don’t know what’s happening here, but Groban makes me laugh SO HARD.

Category the Fifth: Ha!

awkward pics of slacks for men    
big lucy is watching you     
blog”i hit curbs”parking     
can a turtleneck protect you from a vampire     
coupon code for remora    
dear dumbcat will you be my friend        
effing meteors unblocked from school   
lucy and the football is a euphemism for           
lucysfootball.com+crazy-people   
magic boob potion   
mcdonalds dollar menu with prices        
meaning of lucy’s football  
this thing is going to impale me   
unicorn stab people with my head           
wear hector’s coat euphemism definition          
what to wear skydiving cold turtleneck  
when a person come to reserve for a week end in a hotel when the person will pay what description will the receptionist take?         
who said “come toot” in romeo and juliet?       
why isnt raylan shooting people   

This is my favorite category because it cracks me up, yo.

You’re all about euphemisms this month. I don’t know if Lucy’s Football is a euphemism. It’s more of a…I don’t know. Is it a fable? Can it be like a fable? I don’t even know what you would call it, to be honest. On one level, it’s a simple scene in a cartoon about a bratty little girl who won’t let a sad little boy kick a football. Ever. On another level, it’s about life. And how hard it is to get the things we want. And how they’re right there…until they’re not. And how cruel that is. So it’s not really a fable. Cautionary tale? I don’t even know. All I know is? Shh, it’s a secret, but I’ll tell you. Whatever it is, it’s true.

Unless your turtleneck is made of metal and garlic, I would think a vampire would bite right through that shit. Don’t be foolish.

Coupon code for remora? The suckery things that feed on fish? I think you can have as many of those as you want. You don’t need a coupon code. Just go fishing somewhere they live. SOLVED IT!

Dumbcat can’t be your friend. People scare him. But I’ll give him a cuddle for you, it’s better for everyone.

EFFING METEOR! I wrote someone an email with “Eff” as the subject line lately and he laughed and laughed. “Who says eff?” he said. Me. I say eff.

I’m pretty sure the prices on the dollar menu are…um…a dollar?

Ooh, look, this makes me a liar, some things are NOT a dollar! Misleading!

Ooh, look, this makes me a liar, some things are NOT a dollar! Misleading!

Hee, “come toot.” I don’t know if that’s in Romeo and Juliet? I checked and I’m not seeing it. But there are a lot of interpretations. Keep searchin’, babe, you’ll find your toot someday.

Raylan totally shot someone last week, FINALLY. I know, this season’s been light on shootery, right? It’s the worst, Dad’s so upset.

I don’t understand your question about the hotel. What description? Like, what will the receptionist write in the book? Probably “paid in full?” I don’t know, this question is odd.

ZOMG “wear Hector’s coat.” I don’t even KNOW what that’s a euphemism for. Let’s see what the internet says: NOTHING. So we can totally make up what we think it means. I think condoms. Probably condoms. Also, “this thing is going to impale me.” Hee! THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!

Category the Sixth: I WANT THIS PLEASE.

this is something we call days of no worries     

I want a day of no worries. Can I have a day of no worries? Where can a person get one of these things? Is it called a coma? It’s called a coma, isn’t it? Dammit.

Category the Seventh: We talked about this last month. Yes. Stop being weird.

can you choke yourself to death with a belt      

YES YOU CAN. Stop asking. The answer doesn’t change just because you ask the question over and over. If you put something around your neck, and stop your blood and/or breath, you can die. End of story.

Category the Ninth: Aw, seriously, I’m not Dear Abby, but I can try to help, I suppose.

i’m a chicken shit, i’m a lesbian, but i’m still in the closet, depend on my controlling mother, i have two kids, in my 30s  - you are not a chickenshit, so stop that right now. You’re in a shitty situation and you’re doing your best. You need to think of your kids, and you need to think of yourself. First: stop depending on your mom. Get a job that pays enough that you don’t have to depend on her anymore. Get yourself (and your kids, who are totally, whether you know it or not, sucking up your sadness and it’s not good for them – it’s in their best interest you get yourself better) out from under. Then, when you’re on your own two feet: baby, you come out. You come out loud and you come out proud and you shout it from the rooftops. You love who you were meant to love. Your kids will be so proud of their mom for letting who she is really shine. And if there’s any chance you’re still reading this, I am so proud of you. You keep at it, ok? You’re young. In your 30s? That’s nothing. You can do this. I believe in you.

im upset interviews but no job – yeah, the economy sucks. I really can’t say anything but keep at it. If you know anyone who works anywhere with any job openings, ask them to keep you in mind. That’s how I got my job. I was so lucky. It takes a long time and it’s humbling and it’s terrifying. I know. I’m so sorry.

is it too pressurising to start a little girl to do ballet at 5 years old   – pressurising isn’t a word, first of all, but is it too much pressure? Well, here’s my question. Does she want to take ballet, or do YOU want her to take ballet because you always wanted to don the toe shoes? Don’t put pressure on her. See if she likes it. If she does, awesome. If she doesn’t – well, then, let her not like it. Don’t be one of those terrible shouty reality TV moms. Those poor kids. I feel terrible for them.

mysterious cut on cat’s face  - Dumbcat gets those. I think he scratches himself while bathing. Just keep an eye on it; if it looks infected, or the cat seems to be in pain, go to the vet, otherwise, it will heal on its own.

how to trip over your own feet for musical theatre  - hee! I like this. Walk like normal; don’t look at your feet, or you’ll telegraph what you’re about to do to the audience. While walking, put one foot closely in front of the other and kick it with the front of the other foot and then totally overreact to that and pretend to stumble. Works like a charm; I mostly know this because I do it myself on a regular basis and I’m not even trying to stumble.

Category the Tenth: Aw, you. Thanks!

congratulations on bonus euphemism
don’t know how i live without you

NOW WITH SPECIAL BONUS EUPHEMISM! FREE WITH PURCHASE!

I don’t know how I’d live without me, either. Thanks for the confidence-booster, my friend, it’s much appreciated.

There you go, my sweetest babushkas. I’m going to bed now so when I wake up, I will wake up to the news that Andreas is in my time zone. IN MY TIME ZONE!

UPDATE UPDATE HE IS HERE ANDREAS IS HEREEEEEEE! Welcome to America, Andreas, I am so happy you’re here! I don’t have enough exclamation points to express this! YAY YAY YAY!!!

Until next month, my poor lost lambikins. May Google be kind in your searches.

Love, Me.

(As always, thank you to Mer for the inspiration for these posts!)


It is national Amy’s BFF day. To celebrate, I wrote this letter.

Dear BFF:

Today is your birthday. I sent you a card but, in typical Amy fashion, it was not timely. Remember when I used to be weeks early with things like cards, and I was able to send gifts out and they were awesome? Heh. Those were the days. ANYWAY, a card is coming. Thank you for responding in a timely fashion to my “OMG I DON’T HAVE YOUR ADDRESS AND I’M AT WORK PLEASE SEND IT NOW FOR…A THING…THAT I NEED IT FOR!” email the other day. I love you.

Since it is your birthday, let’s talk about reasons why I love you more than pudding, even tapioca or that canned chocolate pudding you can’t find anymore that was the best stuff ever and was so thick it would gag you but it was SO SO GOOD.

Best pudding ever. When I lived elsewhere, my mom shipped this stuff to me. That's love, people. Now I can't find it ANYWHERE. *sob*

Best pudding ever. When I lived elsewhere, my mom shipped this stuff to me. That’s love, people. Now I can’t find it ANYWHERE. *sob*

  1. You totally talk me off ledges. (Metaphor-ledges, let’s be clear about this.)
  2. You make me laugh and laugh by sending me photos of things with funny captions and there’s no way you could know that I’m having a terrible day, considering we’re a billion miles apart (FINE, we’re only across the country, it feels like a billion miles) but they always seem to come when I need them the most.
  3. If someone does me wrong, you immediately hate them. Without even a question. That’s loyalty right there, babe.
  4. When you came to stay with me right before I moved out of your state, Dumbcat, who was new to me and was scared of all the humans except me, finally, by the last day, snuck out from under the chair and sat on your lap and let you pet him and you had a look on your face like you’d charmed a unicorn and I loved you for that, and also Dumbcat knows good people, yo. He’s tasteful.
  5. When we met up again years and years later to take New York City by storm, I was kind of nervous because I hadn’t seen you in five years, but it was like I had just seen you yesterday, and we were the same with each other as ever, and still did goofy wonderful things and made each other laugh to tears and there’s really no other definition for a true friendship than you can go five years without seeing someone and it’s like you spent no time apart at all, now is there?
  6. Every time I email you and am the least bit excited about anything (a guy, a job, a new prospect, anything) you are the most supportive human being alive and tell me how I’m going to be the best at that. You don’t even hesitate.
  7. If I’m being a dumbass, you tell me and I don’t even ever get the slightest bit mad. You’ve earned that right. Being my friend for 16 years has earned that for you. (And let’s be honest, you’re usually totally right about my dumbassery. You’re very wise, BFF.)
  8. You read every single post I write and tell me it’s like having me there in the room with you as you drink your coffee. Could there be a better compliment? I think not.
  9. You send the best presents, like Flake bars and penguin pillows and bacon lipgloss.
  10. I am the best Amy there is when I am with you, either virtually or in person. You bring out the best Amy. There’s no higher compliment than that.

BFF, although (yet again, due to the billion miles thing) I cannot be there with you for your birthday, please know that I love you the most, and wish you the best day ever. Knowing you makes every day of my life better. I am pleased this is your birthday, because that means you were born today. And if you were NOT born, well, what would I do? No one would send me photos like this and ask me if I wanted it for my Christmas present.

WHAT IS THIS CHILLING THING I CAN’T EVEN. That child looks either petrified with fear or already dead. I opened my email and shrieked a little, then laughed and laughed.

I love you, BFF. Someday I will come to your city and we will conquer it with many antics and much tomfoolery. But I’m not coming in the summer this time. Remember when I came to visit you one August and made you play minigolf even though you were all, “Amy, no one goes outside of airconditioning in the summer here, it’s like 110 degrees” and I said, “IT WILL BE FINE” and then we almost died? Thank you for not being mad I almost killed you with heatstroke in my quest to play minigolf because I love it so much, BFF, you’re really the best.

SO SO HOT. ALMOST DIED.

SO SO HOT. ALMOST DIED.

Happiest of happy birthdays. When I am grand high ruler of the world, today will be a national holiday. It will be AMY’S BFF DAY and everyone will get the day off and there will be FREE CAKE FOR ALL. And also bacon. ALL the bacon.

Because this is the Valentine’s Day card my BFF sent me this week, you guys. He really rocks.

I love you more than pudding. MORE THAN CANNED PUDDING.

Here is a photo of Amy and BFF taken not long after we met. Look at these two youngsters, all filled with love and promise. This hangs over my bed, by the way, so I can see it every day. It's to remind me of how much love I have in my life. It totally works, too.

Here is a photo of Amy and BFF taken not long after we met. Look at these two youngsters, all filled with love and promise. This hangs over my bed, by the way, so I can see it every day. It’s to remind me of how much love I have in my life. It totally works, too.

Love (and love and love and then more love, all crammed in there with the love), Amy.


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